Ad Finem
by Waiting.At.The.End
Summary: "They were going to kill you fratello. So I said I would take your place." The 150th anniversary of the Unification of Italy marks the lack of need for two representations, and one would have to disappear. Because in the end, "nothing lasts forever."
1. One Hundred and Fifty

******a/n: **So, this story is co-written by me and two other brilliant writers on TinierMe, but perhaps not so much co-written as RP-ed, haha. The beginning might be a tad confusing at first, because it occurred as we slowly branched away from the main RP, but you'll see that it becomes more self-contained as we go on. I've tried to edit it as to not make it as confusing. We're only introducing Feliciano and Lovino right now, but Ludwig and Gilbert will be showing up soon, along with the plot.

* * *

_One hundred and fifty years of unification._

A seemingly slight feat for others proved a significant achievement for those sheltered underneath it.

This was the year.

Thus it was quite a difficult feat to focus knowing such. When slightly tanned hands fumbled through the handout sent previously the night before in such zeal and undisguised amusement, it was immensely difficult to concentrate on the miniscule conversations developing between the other fellow nations. Looking gently over the conference room, confirming a lack of activity, the brunette carefully withdrew a single slice of tiramisu from a placed leather bag beside him, teetering a fork between his index and forefinger before mumbling a simple, "Happy Birthday" to himself a consecutive five months early.

A now present brawl seemed to ensue as the younger Italian's certain brother had seemed to have lost it for a moment. Not that it wasn't a frequent event, however, the younger knew that the elder could have a chance at more friends if he let his barriers down a tiny bit.

Placing the silver fork down, protecting his precious treasure all around with the handouts he had not cared to read, he approached the tension happening shortly away from his now abandoned seat. Lacing fingers together around the front of Lovino's suit, he pulled gently as to attract a slight reaction from the other.

Attempts had failed before but, he was hoping to omit a reaction from the other as he pursued the current focus of his day.

"Only five more months, fratello."

* * *

Romano saw his stupid younger brother feasting on a rather good looking tiramisu. Hm, and not even saving a piece for a beloved older brother? Damn him, he really is stupid isn't he?

Suddenly, he felt someone grabbing at him and mumbling something. It couldn't have been Spain- he was clearly across the room, still talking to France. Preparing to beat the living hell out of whoever dared to touch him, he turned around furiously, but all of these emotions vanished when he saw his younger brother's calm expression. He blushed at his stupid twin's open affection. "What the hell are you doing?" he said, but not too harshly. He knew how sensitive Feliciano was. "What do you want?" The embarrassed Italian nudged Feliciano off of him with his elbow. Romano was still upset that his fratello didn't save a piece of tiramisu for him. Did they have more at home? Well it didn't matter, since he wanted to eat one now.

* * *

The laced fingers buried in the beige-coloured cloth of Romano's uniform formed into a clasped sort of fashion. The younger sighed heavily, trying to shift his hands to a more comfortable position while being pressed against his own brother's squirming body. It had seemed nothing had really started of late, and his own precious treasure had seemed to not be touched as he glanced carefully over to redeem that fact.

Being left still, the Italian rested his body weight against his elder, half asleep due to an immense amount of drinking he had done last night. A glass of water and some medication the night of can kill a hangover, but, the slight awkwardness of it still remains the morning after.

His thoughts seemed to run a one-track mind today, and while the allure of the Italian cake was an easy distraction, the auburn followed his original frame of mind.

"Fratello, it's only five months away you know."

* * *

Romano scoffed, still feeling uncomfortable being so close to Feliciano. He turned his head and rested his eyes on the top of his younger brother's head, using one of his 'are-you-stupid?' expressions. "Hah? Five months is a long time from now, if you didn't know that. Things like that don't matter. You really are stupid!"

He glanced down at his half eaten tomato. It didn't feel as firm as it used to. The juices were dripping down, and a thin goo formed around the tender areas of the tomato, which made it not as appetizing to eat.

Romano felt a little better being embraced by the person closest to him... Agh! No, this is stupid. His tomato had gone bad because of him. "Damn it, Feliciano! What the hell is wrong with you?" he yelled, nudging Feliciano a little harder than before to ensure his freedom. His eyes fell again onto the small dish of cake set on his brother's place at the table, and mind always quick to search for criticism, he asked "Aren't you going to offer me a piece?"

* * *

Feliciano pulled back quickly. Confusion struck at the comments his brother has been leaving. "I-I offered you a piece before we left," he allowed a pregnant pause to elevate between the conversation before notifying the occurrences of attempted and failed order among the room.

Glancing briefly at the lack of order, fuddled by his own thoughts blocking out the conversations of the room, he retreated back to his precious cake in the fake pretense that the meeting may have started without a few individuals.

Beckoning to the seat besides him, he notified his brother to join him. "If it is bothering you that much, you can have the rest."

* * *

Romano stretched his stiff arms and rotated his shoulders in small circular motions. He looked at his brother. Yes, he remembered. He was in a bad mood this morning for no apparent reason and snapped at Feliciano when he offered. Might as well deny it; he didn't want his stupid little brother to think that he was stupid. "...Y-You didn't offer me a piece before we left, stupid. Even if you did, I probably didn't hear you. You should speak up when you're talking to people!" Once Romano was done chastising Feliciano he took a seat next to him.

To be honest, by now Romano didn't want to eat the rest of his brother's cake, but if he didn't, Feliciano would think that he was going soft on him or something, right? No way! He was way tougher than his stupid little brother.

"Hmph!" Romano grabbed the small fork and ate the piece of cake silently, wanting to leave some behind for Feliciano. It was good... but of course he would never compliment his brother about such things. Or anything, for the matter.


	2. World Meetings

**a/n:** Enter Ludwig and Gilbert. I swear this will get better soon... This started so long ago and we're totally realizing the difference in quality in the early parts. Stick with us. It _will_ get better. If not, you are free to pelt us with frying pans and vending machines.

* * *

World meetings.

What sounds much more like an immense, demanding and solemn interaction to decide the significance of events and what should be done could be put, at best, as hell. Sophistication and reasoning was seemingly lost in others' personal contradictions. What had been more stressful, was the endless late nights crammed into a small workplace with a mountain of work that needed to seemingly be finished at that very moment.

If this could just go quickly...

Pushing the bland, wooden door open gently with a little self-remorse, the blonde hesitantly entered the fair sized conference room with an evident unsettled attitude.

* * *

Feliciano raised a single finger opening his mouth as if to say something, closing it yet again. His brother's lies were shallow, and quite easy to see through, however, it would do best just to leave it be.

"Of course! Silly me! I must have forgotten to ask you!"

Pushing his leather shoes against the carpet floor, he rotated once around in the wheeled office chair in an avoidance of the conversation blooming into a spasm of said shallow lies.

The fact that his brother had, however, taken the cake had merely emphasized what could be read as a 'sorry.' Overjoyed about this, he smiled to himself, staring down at his feet, admiring the hardly broken-in leather reflecting his face back at him.

Glancing back at the brunette, a slightly tan hand pressed against the armrest, leaning slightly over the tipsy seat to his brother. He brushed his lips against Lovino's now-flushed cheek before the chair wobbled and toppled over, now a mess of Feliciano, the chair, and dozens of papers.

* * *

"Hmph!" Romano said nothing more. Ha! His stupid little brother actually believed him. He returned to lifting pieces of the delicious tiramisu into his mouth. He took a glance at Feliciano. What the hell was he smiling about? He was probably hypnotized by a passing bug or something. He's so simple-minded, isn't he?... Or maybe his little brother was thinking that he _had_ gone soft on him! W-Which he didn't, of course! Either way, it was another opportunity to tease his stupid little brother.

Before he had a chance, a pair of lips fell on his cheek. Romano almost spat out pieces of his cake. The next thing he knew, his brother was sprawled across the floor, along with a tipped over chair and scattered papers. He brought a hand up to his red face and profusely rubbed the spot where he and Feliciano made contact. "What the hell was that! You stupid bastard! What the hell!" Romano yelled instinctively. He instantly felt bad afterwards. He was used to these kinds of things form Feliciano, after all. Romano was standing up now, deciding whether to go on with his rampage or stop to help clean up the mess Feliciano caused.

Before he could decide, a familiar muscular German walked into the room. He frowned. Just seeing him made Romano furious. He turned his attention to Germany, ignoring the obvious reactions the other nations displayed. Damn that macho potato bastard! That half eaten rotten tomato he had lying on the table would be the perfect projectile! But there was also the matter of his stupid little brother. Hm, he doesn't look as happy as he usually does when that damn potato comes over. That's probably due to how stupid he's been acting today. Feliciano must have been eating too much crap (aka. potatoes and other German foods) lately!

* * *

"Want some?" France offered and Prussia was about to ask some of what when the blond suddenly pulled a bottle of wine from... Well, he didn't know really. France's abilities seemed to consist of generating wine and roses out of nowhere, stripping himself/others down, and... That was it, really. The other nation had never been terribly useful in the battlefield—Prussia himself could attest to that. (And no, the Napoleonic Wars didn't count, dammit!)

The albino considered. He was certainly more fond of beer than whatever grape juice the beard could produce, and strictly speaking, it was _France_ offering him after all. It could be laced with some sort of drug for all Prussia knew. "Keep it," he told the Frenchman. "I don't want to be waking up with you tomorrow morning."

The other nation upped and walked away, and Prussia assumed that he must've offended the wine-loving bastard somehow. Should he be feeling the slightest bit of guilt..? No, scratch that thought, the Frenchman was fine. Prussia couldn't tell for sure from this distance, but he could swear the blond had just thrown a flirtatious wink in Norway's direction. France, however, was quickly wiped from his mind when a crash caught his attention.

He looked just in time to see a) Italy fall off his chair, and b) West walk into the room. The albino took a second to wonder why it took so long for the German to arrive, but decided that his cute Italian was more of a pressing question at the time. "O—oi, Italy!" He hurried to the brunette's side, who was on the ground, covered in files for the conference with the chair toppled over beside him. "Are you okay?"

* * *

Romano was surprised when he saw Prussia run over to Feliciano so suddenly. He didn't hate him as much as he hated Germany, but the albino was still much disliked (not that Romano liked that many people, anyway).

His brother was being attended to, so he might as well get rid of that macho potato! He grabbed his half eaten tomato off the table and with a quick flick of his wrist, he sent the red ball hurling towards the intoxicated German. Bam! Right on the side of his face! The goo-y tomato exploded in a thousand mushy pieces on contact. Romano praised himself on his amazing accuracy; his pick-pocketing and throwing abilities seemed to be the only things he was skilled at- that and cooking, of course. He smiled devilishly. "Ahahaha! Take that, you goddamn potato bastard! You look so stupid right now!"

* * *

Ludwig rubbed the side of his face gently, wincing at the remaining tomato now dripping off of his fingers in distaste. He rotated in his seat merely giving the elder Italian a sort of demeaning glance before facing directly towards Japan.

"Fine, just fine." His voice had a slight vibrato he did not like at all, his voice sounding stressed and pushed. Offering a single hand out with another glance to the cocky brunette he placed a simple plea.

"Do you," a slight sigh was emphasized between phrases, "have some sort of tissue? It seems I may need it."

While guiding his glance away from the Japanese, he accidentally had made eye contact with Feliciano, recoiling then to avoid future interaction. He needed to clear his head before facing the auburn. Moving his gaze to the left, a found reason to avoid the Italian could easily be proclaimed.

Relinquishing a held sigh he muttered a quick "Please, excuse me." to the petite, ebony-haired male in front of him to approach his brother with a set determination.

Placing a single hand on the shoulder of the albino, throwing a small glance back at Feliciano, he turned the other German around to face him.

"You are not to attend world meetings remember?"


	3. Will

There was a movement Prussia caught out of the corner of his eye, and next thing he knew, he was looking at his little brother with tomato juice dripping down his face. West simply looked mildly surprised and slightly disgusted—Prussia assumed that he had become accustomed to the abuse the elder Italian would throw at him (sometimes literally).

But that didn't mean that the Prussian had to take it sitting down, and really, what kind of an older brother would he be if he did? "Oi, brat!" he turned on Romano angrily, intent on avenging the tomato-y assault West had just suffered. "Just what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Could the brunette really related to the cute, sweet and good-natured Feli? The elder was always rude and bossy and selfish and causing someone trouble. These days, it was mostly West or Spain, and seeing that both of them were rather close to Prussia, the Italian's actions more often then not rubbed him the wrong way. (What did Spain see in the brat anyway?)

West, however, didn't seem to mind as much, since the first words out of his mouth when he approached the albino were not 'Thank you for defending me, oh awesome one,' but rather "You are not to attend world meetings, remember?"

Two conflicting thoughts collided in Prussia's mind at once. One being 'damn, West, you're no fun,' and the other 'is it really okay to take you seriously when you look like that?' And no matter how indignant he felt at having his younger brother taunted, it _was _rather funny.

"Pffft." The albino turned his head to the side, bringing up a hand to half-conceal the mocking smile currently playing across his lips. "Maybe you can tell me that when you don't have that shit on your face."

* * *

Romano was disappointed by the German's response. God damn him! He scanned the room for more things he could possibly throw at Germany. He was too worn out from being at the unsuccessful meeting for so long, so he couldn't pick up a chair and toss it at Germany like he usually would. Let's look at the options... a bouquet of flowers, a pen, the cake... The cake!- Oh, wait, not the cake. Romano was saving that for Feli- Ah! Not his stupid brother. No, of course not...Ahem, anyway... Ludwig's calm demeanor seemed to affect Romano, as he didn't make any more violent attempts on the German, but rather just spitting out insults like "Fuck you, you macho potato!" or "Dammit,, go jump off a bridge!" and the occasional "I'll strip you of your muscles, you damn bastard!"

* * *

Gilbert had been distracted by the younger German. It had frankly been a good thing, considering the pools of happiness bubbling in him had now left, in place was a shallow smile eternally drilled on his face. Half glazed eyes glanced up at his brother's actions and comments directed towards the German almost as if staring directly through him.

Without eye contact, he gently rose a small hand to make contact with the brunette's now potential fist. Swirling yet glazed eyes looked as if through the table, proclaiming the fact of the lack of worth.

That night. That night had changed everything.

"Stop." The word was uttered at a tone that sounded almost as if breaking.

The shallow smile remained on his face.

* * *

He really should let go of the past.

It was a lone weakness. That was unforgivable, this weakness, however obviously emphasized when the blonde yet again tilted his head to see Feliciano's almost broken face.

One moment is all one needs to destroy something fragile.

For once in a long while, he actually felt like crying. What could one do to fix something as broken as this?

A pair of ruby eyes broke him out of his trance, glancing forth to his elder brother, hiding as much as he could muster. The comment the other had left brought back some of the firm stiffness erected previously, leaving his elder with a skeptical look before, yet again, asking his former comrade for the little cloth the Asian was now using to wipe down the table.

Offering a single hand signifying for the other to hand him the cloth, he allowed a forced smile upon his face to break the cold aura brimming over the small conference room.

"Allow me to finish."

Hoping that Kiku would not be modest, he offered his services in a more selfish manner than helpful, with the intent to avoid his problems through the process of hard work.

The tomato came off relatively easily considering the surface, and even when gone he continued to scrub the same spot as if it wasn't already clean, blocking out even the vibrant America in his efforts.

* * *

Prussia was expecting some kind of reply from his little brother (perhaps some reprimanding too) but the other nation simply turned away. He asked Japan for the handkerchief and bent to clean up the mess made by Romano without another word in Prussia's direction.

The albino watched him, disconcerted and slightly worried. West had been acting somewhat melancholy for a few days now—not that the German was usually bubbly and cheerful, that would be Feli's job. And speaking of the Italian...

Prussia saw that the brunette hadn't moved from his previous position and that alone told him something was wrong. Usually the first thing Italy did when West walked in the room was to run up and hug him (Prussia wasn't jealous of that at all), going "Doitsu, Doitsu~" Apparently he had been learning some words from Japan.

"Oi, Feli," the Prussian repeated as he offered a hand to the nation on the ground. "Are you all right?" He wasn't sure this time if he was talking about the fall or... something else.

* * *

Romano glared at his brother, but he stopped his insults. He jerked his own hand back to slap his brother's hand away before stuffing them into his pocket. "Tch!" His eyes narrowed. Something about Feliciano's tone made him worried. Something really was wrong with his stupid brother today. The papers were still scattered across the conference floor. He grunted and freed his hands to pick one of them up. An expression of confusion crept onto his face as he examined the paper, turning it from front to back from front to back a few times. "The fuck is this..?" he cursed, his anger still not completely erased.

* * *

Feliciano kept a shallow smile printed on his face, however, eyes could tell a much different story expressing on how much hurt flowed throughout them.

He glanced up towards the seemingly concerned albino, quite a change in personality it seemed. One would know though, that Gilbert and Lovino alike were endearing, caring individuals with unusual ways of expressing it. When these true feelings hit the surface, it was for a good cause and much needed.

He needed that.

It was not uncommon for the auburn to cry, he had done it frequently on a daily basis. These tears threatening to fall from his eyes were however...

Somehow different.

"I'm fine."

One would know that the young Italian was a horrible liar and that broke the surface as if the reaction on the silver-haired, trouble maker's face had anything to say about it.

Nodding an affirmative as if to more assure himself than the other, he now turned to directly face his brother's somewhat confused stance, eyes widening as his navy-clothed arm bore quickly to reclaim the document. The false happy demeanor now faded away, turning to a more serious expression as the tears threatened to fall.

"It's... a will," he added another statement with immense hurt in his voice, "my will."

Bringing his hands around the center of his legs, he folded them over curling into a relatively, miniscule ball emitting shallow, held back sobs.


	4. Confession

Prussia was not good at these things. He was not good with delicate situations, with diplomacy, with "reading the atmosphere" and all that bullshit. He detested intricacies, perfectionism, discretion, subtlety—he just wasn't good at it. What he _was_ good at, however, was war. It was simple, direct, it required no formalities. It was you or them, and the simple fact was that you had to come out on top.

Therefore, he had been relieved when Italy looked up, smile in place and answered _"I'm fine."_ He felt some part of him that had been dreading a—a breakdown or something loosen up as he sighed, even though some part of his mind nagged at him, at the answer that sounded fake like some sort of cover-up. But Feli had said he was fine, and that was that, wasn't it?

Yes, that should have been the end of it, and Prussia's instincts told him to just nod and accept the brunette's answer and get the fuck out of there, 'cause it was going to get way, way worse. He was late, however, and the events set into motion (perhaps even by himself) refused to be stopped as Italy snatched the piece of paper his brother had been holding, and in such a quiet voice that even the albino's unusually sharp ears had to strain to pick it up. _"It's... a will. My will."_

Prussia got one of those frozen in time moments that he normally associated with the battlefield, when the enemies were closing in, and your people were dropping like flies with the sound of gunshots all around, and it seemed like everything—everything you could ever have worked for—was about to be shattered like some flimsy glass ornament. There had been one such event in particular that he would not care to repeat ever again, but...

A will? Who had ever... heard of a country writing a will? He stood still, red eyes widened in astonishment at the Italian before him as the other curled up and began to cry in sobs he tried desperately to hold back. The albino didn't move from his spot, though the initial surprise had worn off by now (you learned to recover quickly in a battle), but rather because he was _no damned good_ at this.

The nation that he had—er, affections for, to say the least—was crying on the ground, probably over some will he had never heard about a country write before. (Had West, maybe Japan, known about this?) Whatever the reason, it was devastating the Italian and fuck, this is where someone stepped in with comforting words and maybe some wise philosophy to comfort the devast-ee, and God knows he was useless at that.

In desperation, he looked at the nations around him because there _had _to be someone competent in this area, and the first person his eyes landed on was West. In retrospect, the strict and socially awkward country was probably not the person he should have gone to, but Italy was sobbing on the ground and West was like his best friend or something, so why the fuck not?

He stormed over to his brother (and no, he wasn't feeling panicky at all, he just felt that Feli needed some urgent help, that was it), and explained the situation very clearly by simply demanding, "What the fuck is happening?"

* * *

The preserved wood making up the lengthy conference table had started to wear at the immense pressure the relatively subservient blonde had applied to it, trying at best to push back the emotions threatening to be released in the form of tears. Some had left their safe keeping however, strolling down the nation's cheeks to make little droplets on the now worn down cloth of the handkerchief.

Driven deep into a state of cleaning, drenched in his own thoughts, the German hadn't even noticed the younger Italian curled on the ground in gentle sobs, the conversations held, or his elder brother approaching him with concern that the retired nation attempted to conceal with crudity.

_"What the fuck is happening?"_

The sound of the albino's voice, abrupt and unnerving, yet, having that certain vibrato of panic compelled him out of his situation of self-reflection in a forced manner. Tired eyes reflected his brother's facial reflection, allowing the other to see the true nature of his face and how thin his attempt at blocking his true intentions was.

Tears threatening to spill, he shifted to face his brother, putting calloused hands on those thin shoulders ensuring the other was making eye contact.

"Nothing lasts forever bruder."

* * *

The elder of the two Italians blinked, crashing deep into his previous confused state. It was a what...? Surely he must have heard his fratello wrong with all this commotion going around. Or maybe his stupid brother mixed up his words again! O-Of course! Feliciano was so incredibly stupid after all! "...W-Wha- Speak up, you idiot! I didn't hear you right... I-I thought you said something about-" Romano stopped. His initial theories were proven valid at the sight of Feliciano sobbing himself into a tiny ball. Lovino took a minute to realize what the hell was happening... He stared down at his pathetic brother. Usually when Feliciano cried he'd tell him to shut the fuck up. But this time it was different; Romano felt genuine concern.

"A will? L-Like the kind you write when you die? You're so-" Romano paused, holding back his curses. It would only make Feli feel worse. "...stupid!" He let out a nervous laugh in an attempt to lighten the mood. "You really are an idiot! Do you really think we're gonna die soon? Hell, we won't be dead for another millennium..."

Romano's words seem to have no effect. What the hell was his stupid brother thinking?... Unless was he thinking about taking his own life? N-No way! His stupid happy little brother? The one who'd go around smiling like a goddamn bastard and making pasta and singing and dancing and painting and... and... he'd never...

The elder was now in panic. He glanced at the Prussian, seeking help. Romano was never good with these kinds of things... and apparently neither was the albino, seeing that he walked away. Fuck! Lovino stooped down to Feliciano's level, awkwardly putting his hand on his little brother's back. Oh god, what did he do when Italy was upset? He'd cook with him, sing with him, paint with him, dance with him... but the distraught Italian seemed unwilling to do either of those things. "Feliciano..." Romano's voice was shaking.

He studied the room for _anything_ that could help him. Nothing so far- wait! His eyes fixated on the unfinished piece of tiramisu resting on top of the smooth wooden surface. His stupid little brother loved to eat! In half a second, Romano retrieved the delicate piece of cake from the tabletop. No more than a quarter of the slice was left, but Lovino was sure that it would make Feliciano feel a little better. Romano lowered his tone of voice, trying not to sound harsh and uncaring like he usually did. "Hey, Feli." He nudged the rim of the plate at his brother's arm, trying to get his attention. _Take the goddamn cake, you bastard!_ Romano desperately thought to himself.

* * *

Feliciano glanced at the cake halfheartedly, heart dropping that very moment. Shaky hands pushed the porcelain away with as much effort as he could display in such disarray, shaking his head in response. He could tell his brother was hurting, however...

It was best if things remained this way.

"Fratello," his voice cracked slightly, leaning on his brother for support, however, refusing another wave of tears to come about.

"We... when we unified... we had become one country, however," he paused, sobbing a bit into the beige fabric.

"You deserve grandfather's inheritance. They were going to kill you fratello. So," he held a shallow smile as if it some cruel joke. "I said I would take your place. You are the oldest and the most mature. I've had my golden age. I've had my fun. I..." a new wave of pain released from his soul, coming out in more sobs now connecting eyes with his brother for the first time that meeting, "I'll say hello to Grandpa Rome for you!"

* * *

Romano felt as if any hope of revitalizing his younger brother was shattered into a million more pieces each inch the cake and Feliciano were separated. A shaky voiced peeped out of his younger brother. Romano strained his ears, preparing to listen and analyze everything that Italy would say and then make a plan about kicking the shit out of whoever—demolishing whatever made his stupid brother feel this way.

His brother finished his sentence. Feliciano's tear-stained face and the pain radiating from his glazed eyes punctured the very core of Romano's chest, a pain as if he was being torn in half.

Romano was left dead silent.

Did Feliciano know what he was saying? He was gonna up his own life for... for someone as horrible as himself... "F-Feliciano..." He paused, a new surge anger pulsed through Romano.

"What the hell are you saying? What the fuck are you talking about? There's a reason why I didn't get that fucking inheritance! And who said that I wanted that damn thing anyway?" His voice cracked. Romano was almost at the brink of tears, but he held them back. He let out a small, demented chuckle. "You're a fucking idiot!" He clutched the glass plate that held the remaining tiramisu and violently catapulted the china. He watched as it smashed against the wall, the pieces flying in a hundred different directions. He stood there in awkward silence, facing away from his brother. Scenes of Feliciano's confession and his own petty argument seemed to replay endlessly in Romano's mind. He leaned against a table, biting his lip and bringing his hand to his face every now and again to erase any trace of upcoming tears.


	5. Thank You

West looked tired, Gilbert thought. Weary, and worn-out, with his usually tall figure slouched over in exhaustion. He knew it couldn't have been worse than the way _he_ had looked at times, because despite everything, West was still young, and he had not fought half of the wars the Prussian had. And yet, the elder felt a pang in his chest because _West was still young _and he shouldn't be wearing that expression—an expression that Gilbert had already seen too many times for his liking.

His brother, his baby brother... He had promised to protect him, and had he failed?

West had laid his hands on the albino's shoulders, and the other could tell that whatever was coming was serious. No, he wasn't good at sensitivity, but he could tell by the way those fingers were clutched on his shirt, almost as if looking for something to hold on to. His gaze traveled from his brother's hands to meet his eyes (and hadn't he always thought that they were beautiful eyes, all bright blue and clarity), and was surprised to find tears brimming.

"Bruder—" he tried to say, but the nation beat him to it.

"Nothing lasts forever, Bruder." For the second time that day, words had left him stunned. What was West talking about? Nothing lasting forever? What was—? Something—something would end, he could tell by the expression on the younger one's face, but what did that have to do with Italy?

_His will..._ a voice whispered in the back of his mind, a thought he had tried to push away in order to not have to connect the dots, to put the pieces together. Two and two. Four. And what had Japan said? Four was death... It couldn't—it couldn't...

There was no reason to. Italy—north and south—could exist together, as they had existed since their unification more than one century ago. Then, it was expected that one of them would disappear, but neither of them did, and they were allowed to live together and no further thought had been paid to it. So why now? And—and— He felt the icy grip of fear suddenly seize his heart, a thought screamed in his mind in crystal clarity. A country that was not supposed to exist... Then what about him?

But he swallowed the fear, as he was skilled in doing, clenched his fists and willed it away. Nothing had been decided yet (at least not for _him_), and he could hear the twins whispering behind him (what were they saying? Why couldn't he hear them? Oh, he needed to know. He needed to know for sure, he must have reached the wrong conclusion), then the southern part flew into a rage, a string of curses and profanities escaping his mouth and following that, the sound of something shattering. He had been right, hadn't he? But never in his life had he wanted more to be wrong.

He let his head fall forward limply, biting the inside of his lip hard, and tried to gather whatever composure he could with all those thoughts reeling in his head (god, shut up, shut up, just let me think). Nothing lasts forever God Italy how do they plan on doing it if they're both still here it must mean something nothing lasts forever they can't do it it's not that easy but what if they can I won't let them they can't I can't nothing lasts forever nothing nothing—

And through the turmoil of thoughts in his head, one suddenly rose from the mess, ringing clearly, painting itself in silver. _I know. Nothing lasts forever. I know that. Maybe... maybe better than anyone. _He wondered if that thought was supposed to hurt him, but what came with it was only the sudden stilling of the thoughts whirling in his mind moments ago and with it, some sort of relief, but most of all... Most of all, a fiery determination that he was (had been) so well-known for.

He chuckled, feeling both amused and anxious, the two emotions swirling uncomfortably in his gut. "West..." he looked up, the usual smirk reoccupying his features, though it was only wry at best. "I know that." And quieter, he repeated, almost to himself "I know..." He knew it best—that nothing lasted forever. He, this ruined, ruined country who wasn't even a country anymore, who once held half of Europe in his hands, whose name was once mentioned in awe and admiration, and had now been reduced to a whisper in a longing memory. This country that should no longer even exist.

But Italy was different, weren't they? The North couldn't exist without the South, because it was together that they formed the country. But he, on the other hand... He should have gone when the wall crumbled (maybe even earlier when his country was dissolved, but he hadn't disappeared then either, had he?), and he would have been content to, because he knew that whatever was left of him... Whatever was left of him would have been in better hands then he could ever have hoped for.

He had been prepared, he had accepted that nothing lasted forever, that his time was long past and that the stage was going to be handed to that beautiful, beautiful boy he had found on the brink of death two hundred years ago. But Italy (North or South, who gave a shit?), they weren't done yet, and maybe the idea was stupid, preposterous (what power did a former nation have?), but—but—

"Whatever it is..." The irony had gone from his smile now, and it was self-confidence that took it's place, even if it was self-confidence with a trace of sadness (he was done, but they weren't yet). "I won't let it happen.

* * *

Guilt had flooded throughout the young Italian's being. Considering everything that had happened and the grief and anxiety to come, it may have been better to merely flee until the fateful day came. The day of unscripted destiny.

Feliciano endeared every precious memory his had come to own with his brother, and now, on the eve of the anniversary, he would prove his care for him for the final time, with the ultimate sacrifice.

"Five months..."

Wiping the discarded tears from his now red stained face he brought whatever strength he had left in his being to give a final glance over to the Germans who had loved him dearly, knowing that at least he would go loved. Dragging himself over to where his brother was nearly shaking in what had seemed to be over-emphasized grief, he pressed himself against the elder's back, wrapping his hands around the thin waist in means of comfort.

Of course.

His brother was the one that would have to take it all. When he was long gone, he would have to carry the burden of loss eternally. The fingers rested gracefully over the seventh button of Romano's jacket, pulling him closer for the second time that day for a much more serious cause.

"Five months fratello. Make that five months the best of my life for me."

He held back tears in order to keep Lovino still. "Just... please don't cry for me, that is the first thing I have stated in my will. I don't want any of you to cry when I am gone. Be happy and live your own lives." He glanced at the ground at that moment, relinquishing his grip slightly. "Thank you for making a life worth living, Lovino."


	6. Whenever and Whatever

**a/n**: I apologize for the slightly shorter chapter this time, but the upcoming will be longer. On another note, I'd like to thank you all for those wonderful reviews! We take your tears as a compliment (; /brick'd

* * *

Romano could only look at the tips of his shoes, his hair covering his eyes and his hand over his mouth, twisted into a fist. Tears poured out once his brother embraced him, and his hand traveled up to wipe away his tears. The parts that Feliciano stated in his will only made things worse. "S-Shit..." sniff "I don't need t-to take orders from y-you... I-I...I can cry whe-whenever and about whatever the fuck I w-want! Damn it! D-Damn you...!" Romano's sentences were pulled out in chunks, being interrupted numerous times by the hics and sniffs from his sobbing. "You b-bastard..."

Silence. The edge of his sleeve constantly wiped away the continuous stream of water running down his face. Both his arms fell to his sides and sniffed up his running mucus. His breathing became steadier as the two stood there. "...Why didn't you tell me about this earlier?"

* * *

The blonde released a long held sigh, giving his elder brother a wry smile in attempts of meeting his bitter irony with a sense of his own. Remembering a series of events, all playing vividly, as if a movie, within his mind, he repositioned himself as to make sure he was fully facing his brother yet again, tears threatening to escape. His voice cracked to the most obvious degree, those small little collections of his hidden emotions pouring down now, relentlessly.

His brother's own concerns were quite obvious, and the thoughts pained the younger more than the albino seemed to express. As confident and arrogant as the other tried to be, it was all a facade. The brother of such knew enough about Gilbert to assure himself of this knowledge.

He knew this retired nation could neither save himself nor Veneciano from the inevitable fate that both of them would eventually face. It tugged at his heartstrings, knowing that he could not step into the way of fate either.

He had seen this coming the entire time.

Ludwig had to face the general facts, he had forced constant work upon himself to avoid the reality that time would bring those most dear to him closer to leaving him in the dark to forever carry the burden of loss eternally. He found the same factor written across his brother's face, that alone bringing him to tears.

His own words echoed through his head, relatively angry at himself that he had allowed them to be spoken.

_"Nothing lasts forever."_

For the first time in his life, he sobbed, quite loudly, in a sense of built up agony over the years, using his brother as support as he pooled his heart out in the flowing tears. He clenched the navy fabric tightly, having it ball up in the back of Prussia's uniform jacket.

"I... never wanted you to see me like this."

His words were meant to come out firm, unmoving, instead sounding like a broken spirit, one to have lost everything.


	7. Forgive

**a/n**: Thanks again for your reviews, they are really encouraging stuff. (:  
And now just asking the readers' opinions... Would you like the POVs to be labeled?  
I know it must be a bit difficult trying to keep up with them, haha~

* * *

Prussia watched as his brother smiled back, and he didn't miss the bitterness in the small twitch of the other's lips. Almost immediately, he was overcome with a feeling of protectiveness for that boy (still young), and oh, how he wanted to wipe that look clean off West's face. He swallowed thickly, knowing that West had reached the same conclusion—the same fear—as he had.

That he might... that he might disappear for real this time, and he understood that the bitterness in that smile was meant for that. A part of him (and really, how selfish was he?) felt pride that his brother wore that expression for him (him, with all his flaws and imperfections—his terrible drinking habits, his manners which were constantly reprimanded by Austria, his actions that were sometimes way too rough, him, _him_) while the other experienced a sudden surge of self-loathing for the exact same reason.

But then West sobbed, and all Prussia's thoughts of selfishness, of abhorrence, disappeared and were replaced with a deep ache for the other. It was West who would have to live with the pain, after all, and who knew for how long? Countries lived long lives, and even though a decade passed in the blink of an eye, an eternity was still a long time. A long time to mourn, a long time to despair, to grieve, because while their people lived with a country's history, the country lived with it's memories.

The nation's hands clutched tighter at his jacket, and suddenly, Prussia understood the blonde's need for support, for something to _be_ with him right then and there, even if it meant that the something could be gone in a day, a month, maybe a year. Gilbert, acting now completely on instinct, stepped forward and pressed himself close his brother, raising his arms to wrap comfortably around the younger one's torso.

He couldn't remember the last time the two of them had been so close. It was true that he often hovered over West when he worked, and the albino would often drape himself over the blonde's shoulders, but he would almost always be pushed off with a sharp reprimand. And now... as he stood so near to his brother, catching a faint whiff of the other's cologne, hearing his breathing and feeling the rises of his chest, occasionally hitching with a particularly harsh sob, it hit Prussia with an almost painful intensity how much the nation had grown. West was taller than he, stronger, more mature... He had come a long way from the devastated nation Prussia had found in the ruins of a castle two hundred years ago, and Prussia was proud of him. Incredibly and indescribably proud of him, and yet a part of him detested himself for handing such a burden to that lovely boy.

_"I... never wanted you to see me like this." _West's voice sounded broken, desperate, like a man destroyed, and that ache in Gilbert's chest returned with a stronger force.

He closed his eyes, stubbornly refusing to cry. He hadn't cried for a long while, not for anything—not even when the Reunification had been announced and he knew that it marked the end of him. Like hell he'd start now, but with the sound of West's ragged sobs ringing in his ears, he felt the tears gathering, burning to be released if he would let them. He blinked them back, refusing to break, knowing that it would make West feel worse, and he felt selfish, so terribly selfish (Italy, this was supposed to be about him, Italy, Feliciano), and he should stop thinking like a dying man, nothing was decided yet, nothing was finished until your king was dead and your army was annihilated. Someone had taught him that, and he had grown to believe it.

"West..." Gilbert breathed. "Mein geliebter Bruder..." And that was the truth, wasn't it? His beloved brother... More precious to him than anything he had ever come across, the one he had promised to protect at any cost, any sacrifice. And despite the fact that Feliciano would disappear, despite the fact that he may very well follow, he could only feel pain for his dear, dear brother.

"It's alright," he whispered in an attempt to comfort the blonde, not daring to speak any louder, not trusting his voice to remain as steady as he wished it to be, most of all... afraid that it might reflect the uncertainty he felt. Would it really? What could they do? Exactly what power did they have? What if they couldn't do anything?

No. That was a lie. Nothing had been set in stone—as long as Italy (he) was alive, there was hope. Fate could be cheated, and miracles could happen—he was proof of that—and as long as there was hope, he wouldn't give up.

* * *

The younger Italian narrowed his eyes, movements becoming more placid as he ran his hands throughout the centre of Romano's uniform jacket, urging the other to calm down with soothing words spoken in their native tongue. He pressed his head against the brunette's shoulder, fighting tears that edged his sanity.

"I'm sorry."

The words were an almost hushed whisper in the vast and loud actions proclaimed throughout the room.

"I'm sorry, but I can't have you cry."

He pressed his eternal being against the back of his dear brother, praying that his brother would edge out of his obvious state of grief. He took a deep breath, trying to find any remainder of a voice that may consist in his being.

Feliciano's mind operated based on colours, an aura sort of touch. Being at this moment, it seemed to be a pale blue, a comforting colour, destroyed by the aspects of never making it to shore on the endless sea. When he saw his brother, he saw the navy of the ocean, a mass of chaos with an eerily calm wave surrounding the top. His brother was usually darkened colours, however, this deep shade of sorrow was new and quite scary.

"I didn't tell you, for I was afraid that this would happen."

He scooted slightly, the turmoil of their oceanic colours interacting and merging into one set fear.

"I... hope you can forgive me... I want to have the best five months of my life, il mio caro fratello."

He gave himself a wry smile, hidden from the views of the brunette.

"I... just want you and I... to enjoy all those activities we were derived from as children."

He placed cold hands on Lovino's shoulders, twirling him into a face-forward hug.

"I may be selfish but,"

His sentence was never finished.

* * *

Soothing words from his brother calmed the furious Romano. He was silent and motionless as Feliciano talked to him and embraced him. Standing there, deep in thought... was Germany acting weird because he had known about his brother's predicament earlier? If that's so, then why didn't he tell him as well? Feliciano's answer wasn't good enough. Did he not trust him? Sure, Lovino could be a little critical and violent at times, to say the least, but still... they were both Italy... Romano should have had a say in this before his stupid, _stupid_ brother decided everything...

But what could he do now? There must be a way to stop it. They've been coexisting peacefully for more years that he could remember... but the answer would reveal itself soon enough. Even if in the most obscure way, Romano would find it. For now, all he could do if make sure his brother was happy.

"Fratello..." Romano could barely manage a whisper. "You really are stupid. Really... really..." His voice trailed off. Then suddenly, he pushed out of his brother's embrace. "Okay. Fine. We can do whatever the hell you want, fratello!" For a moment, it seemed as if Romano converted back to his usual self, but his true sincerity shone through with a caring smile. Lovino wiped his dry eyes, new determination surging throughout him. "Let's get the fuck out of here."


	8. Selfish

**a/n**: Alright, we've got one vote for labeling the perspective changes so far. Any opinions from the rest? If not, I'll start with it from the next chapter and we'll see how it goes. (: On another note, feel free to drop in the reviews some constructive criticism. All three of us would very much like to know what you think and what we can do to improve. Danke schön!

* * *

Feliciano smiled. This smile had been the most sincere for a long time, usually a ghost of one was attained, conscious of his brother's ignorance at the fact of not knowing what situation the other was in. He pulled him in close again, memories pooling of this occasion before when they had been young. A tender embrace as the renaissance Catholic church both united them and tore them apart. It was that same bitter-sweet embrace that could comfort one's soul and yet break it.

_If I was to be reborn, would you remember me?_

The quote was left unspoken, yet, shared between a subconscious thought. The younger nodded bleakly at his elder's offer, allowing the other to guide him out of the mess of the conference room and into a comfortable safe of the hallway, abandoned on all sides.

It was only then that he permitted himself to cry. Selfish reasoning, however, was not there, tears placed more for his brother's misery and his own lack at finding a better alternative.

_I've been so selfish._

Another unspoken, yet touchy phrase, echoing more in Feliciano's mind than Lovino's, yet trailed throughout the blue of his soul.

"Why are you always so dark of a colour, Lovino?"

The auburn had used his name with a sense of dignity, protecting himself.

"And what can I do to change it?"

_"Why are you always so dark of a colour, Lovino? And what can I do to change it?"

* * *

_

Romano lowered his eyes, noticing that Feliciano wasn't using his usual endearing term, "fratello." He was silent. Usually he would have been annoyed at his brother for asking such a stupidly confusing question, but now wasn't the time, sensing that this question had a deeper meaning to it. "...Maybe you can't," Lovino said simply. Yes, an answer like that would satisfy his brother's tiny mind. He lowered his gaze even further. He felt so horrible. That kind of feeling where you want to confine yourself to your room for the rest of your life, or stand in the middle of an empty freeway, waiting for cars to fill the road. But Romano reminded himself that the reason that made him feel this way also made him more determined to live.

Finally, he made eye contact with his watery-eyed brother. He firmly placed one hand on Feliciano's shoulder and shook him slightly. "C'mon, stop crying, you bastard," Romano cursed him for putting in that bastard part; it came instinctively, dammit! Ahem... "...Really, just stop... you cry too much..." A pause. Romano's hand slid down Feliciano's shoulder. He brought it up to scratch the back of him head nervously, adverting his gaze once again. He frowned. "H-Hey... Feliciano? Do you want to bring-" he stopped himself from using derogatory terms, "Germany and... uh, Prussia?... D-Don't think that I..." he stopped himself again. Romano was going to finish by denying that he wasn't offering to bring Ludwig and Gilbert along for the sake of his brother, but they both knew better. Lovino blushed, frowning ever more. "Do you want to or not?" he asked quite harshly, not giving Feliciano enough time in the first place to answer.

* * *

Ludwig's term of personal confinement was now at an end. One can only keep a straight face for so long while carrying such heavy burdens of worry. Relief smothered the fear, coming with the fact of the ability he had now presented to accurately define his apparently calm state of mind with the true turbulence that it was. With that, however, came a certain self-hate. A state of weakness that managed to show human qualities the nation tried to avoid at all costs.

No one is perfect.

If he would be so, he would be able to attain both the knowledge and strength to save a close friend and protect a brother. In selfish reasoning that filled his being to the brim another explanation was the simple fact of personal weakness. This seemed to hurt more than anything, the fact that he was so focused on his own selfish needs when the two considerably closest to him had death knocking on their door. He was anything but beloved. He was corrupt, conscience drilling him more on perfection than on personal pain.

He hated this.

Hated himself.

As selfish as his brother acted, it was all a façade. For he, the façade was the opposite, granting a certain befalling sadness around the air. And for once, he compelled himself to push the perfection away, at this moment. Hesitation left as the fact hit him.

_Death brings out the best in us._

A confession.

The largest and most sincere, throughout these years he had refused it even to himself. He managed his brother into an awkward sort of hug, gasping to regain a state of mental well-being.

"I really have been the hypocrite haven't I?"

The words were a shallow remain of the perfectionist in him, before raising to a larger level, letting out the identity he hid even from himself.

"If I was ever to lose you..."

He paused, not sure how he wanted to finish that sentence.

"If you were ever to leave me..."

They sounded desperate, these pleas.

Such desperation crushed his being and what he thought he was, yet, never brought him closer to the light.

* * *

Gilbert sighed softly and allowed himself to relax a little when he felt his brother return his embrace, hesitant and awkward, but it was there nevertheless. _"I really have been the hypocrite haven't I?"_ he heard the other ask, and he would have replied, but West kept going so Prussia shut his mouth and allowed West's words to pour out. Honest words, and they affected Gilbert to the core.

_"If I was ever to lose you..."_ West continued, but the words trailed off and the Prussian closed his eyes to the sudden onslaught of pain, biting his lip harshly, wishing he knew how to comfort his brother. _"If you were ever to leave me..."_

Gilbert swallowed, fighting back the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him, and that were already blurring the world before his eyes. How was he supposed to respond to that? What did he say to comfort a man that was losing a friend? What did he say to the same man who would perhaps after that, lose a brother? What did he say to that man when he himself was terrified of what was to come? When he would lose that same friend? And after that—after that...

"I—" Prussia began, had to stop, took a breath and started anew. "I won't," he said firmly, as if the words bound all fate, as if just by speaking them he could ensure his future with his brother. But it didn't, and the only way he could make it happen was through his own means, and his own means had failed him before... Just how close had he come to disappearing that fateful day of October? How close had he been to leaving his brother? Doing that very thing that West was begging him not to do with that desperation in his voice? And now, with Italy's sentence looming over their heads, his end seemed so much more possible—so much more terrifying.

He broke that train of thought abruptly. He couldn't allow himself to think like this. Nothing had been decided yet, as he kept telling himself. This was merely the beginning—no battles had been fought, none had been won or lost, and despite this feeling of despair, this feeling that everything was already over, the truth was is that it was just the beginning, wasn't it? Just the beginning... And Feliciano's will had been the declaration of war.

He pulled back to look his brother in the eye. "I won't leave you," he repeated, true conviction now behind his words. (At least not now... Not to them.) He grinned, bringing a hand up the other's face in a rare show of affection. "So..." he brushed against the nation's cheek as if with that simple gesture, he could wipe away all the pain in his brother's expression, as if his own hand would come away stained with that dark emotion, just as it came away damp with the blonde's tears. "Don't make that face. It's not cool at all."


	9. Scars

_Feliciano_

Certain it is, that some five or so weeks before this common day, Feliciano was already marked with a worn expression and other indications that signified that he had indeed given up his place in the world for his brother's sake. The previously unnoticeable scars that the younger had hidden from his brother using long-sleeved clothing and full attire in bed were now revealed as the younger silently pulled up his sleeve to show what had already been done, giving a darker aspect to the previously lightly-tanned skin.

As he nodded his head as sincerely as he could muster, his eyes, a deep shade of a classic amber, spoke out an uneven message along with his scarred body.

"Thank you... fratello."

He looked out upon serene scene that was revealed to his eye via the window, almost as an attempt to not look at his brother. Not for shame, nor pride but...

The pained expression on Lovino's face killed something inside him.

He pulled the sleeve back over the scars, reaffirming his gaze with his brother.

"Let's go home."

He spoke the words with a ghost of his previous personality, a fake bounce in it in regards to make his brother happy. Taking his brother's arm, he dragged him with on and out of the scarcely decourated hallway, only waiting until the sunlight breached their face to speak.

"You know that phrase 'live every day as if it were your last?'"

His brother's concerned gaze was identified and scarcely hid.

"I did... I always did. But, at some point, I stopped. And that was the most foolish decision of my life."

* * *

_Lovino_

Between the two brothers stood an awkward silence. Romano's lip twitched nervously, the expression masking Italy's face worrying him once again. The tension was broken as Feliciano brought his hand to his opposite sleeve. Slowly, his brother bunched up the cloth until it gathered upon his upper arm, revealing a collection of scars up and down Italy's arm.

Romano stood here, silent and expressionless. His hand, still tangled in the tufts of hair on the back of his head, slid down towards his brother, fingers outstretched. Lovino wanted to trace his brother's scars soothingly, then finally rip off every single damaged cell from Feliciano's arm, happily watching as a new set of porcelain skin would take its place upon his brother's arm. But Romano's stiff hand stopped mid-way to it's destination. His mouth gaped, his dry large eyes merely blinking at the horrific sight. During those few seconds, Romano thought to himself. Why? How? When?...but most importantly, _WHO? _His stupid little brother had scars lined up and down his arm that seemed to have claimed a permanent stay upon his brother's once perfect skin. These scars were not new. Surely there would be more, much more gruesome ones scattered throughout his body.

The oath that Romano swore to himself so many years ago - to make sure that Feliciano was _safe_ - shattered with no hope of recovery. What a horrible big brother he was... a horrible, awful, terrible, shitty-

The sound of his brother's voice broke his trance. Feliciano's arm hid truth once again, and Romano met him eye to eye. The same question voiced itself over and over in his brain..._Feliciano... Why? Why?..._ These came out as no more than whispers to the wind. They were now outside. The sun rays seemed to have burned Romano's skin. So much has happened, he felt as if he had been huddled inside for centuries. Feliciano's grip on Romano's arm fell loose, and Lovino was quick to grab his brother's weak fingers and grasp them in his own. What could he do now? All he could do is listen to his little brother's words...

* * *

_Feliciano_

Time seemed to ease on moral punishment throughout history. On the other hand, a penalty which, apparently back in the days of Prussia's dissolution, would infer a degree of mocking infamy and ridicule, might now be invested with almost as stern a dignity as the punishment of death itself. The Italian now knew this exception to the rule and embraced it with more courage than he had ever displayed in his life. That courage seemed to become more and more difficult to maintain however as the clocked ticked on knowing that basic fact; that each second was bringing him closer to his fate. What was the most effective to him wanting to turn back, turn back and not face his fears of death, was the sympathetic look on his brother's face. The one expression he wore that expressed more pain than any physical infliction one could cast on the body.

Yes, he would have to carry it all. All the weight of his loss, and the weight of Italy. It would all be on his shoulders. He knew he must support his elder brother now more than ever, preparing him for his own doom and giving him the potential to recover and rule.

Dark humour ran through his being at the irony; irony that is the younger showing the older how to move on, when he himself was on the edge of his sanity, fear driven from selfish and humble reasons alike.

At this time however, it would be foolish to break what he had asked his brother to do for him, so, he would smile.

Yes, he would smile and forget about the grim reaper waiting on the horizon for that horizon was five months yonder. He would be happy, living each and every day until then with everyone he called a friend. And standing next to him throughout it, would be his beloved brother.

What was done was done. What was to come would come. It was times like these where one must not concern what would happen to them and instead, focus on things one at a time, living in each moment to its fullest with no regrets or concerns.

He was weak. Weaker than he had ever been. He knew within a few weeks or months he would be bed-ridden, not able to support himself with the damage already done. None of that mattered right now though. All that mattered was his brother's warm hand gripping his, the sunlight reflecting off of their faces, and unspoken gratification and grief combined into one. Two brothers standing in the light marking the beginning of the end.

Feliciano closed his hand around his brother's, gripping as firmly as it would allow, pushing his weight onto his brother, but not daring to move out of the position.

"Fratello, I love you. I love you so much. "

His face turned to face his brother's with a certain degree of emotion. He offered a heart-warming and now sincere smile now, facing the other, the sun seeming to warm their hearts as well as their faces.

"Let's go home."

And upon saying those words, he just looked up into the sky as a flock of birds flew across the sky. A single white feather fell in their wake, standing out on the sidewalk with a certain air and light that made it radiate holiness. Eyes averting to quickly glance at it, he then returned his gaze to the heavens, speaking silent words in his mind aimed for only they to hear.

_Thank you God, for everything._


	10. Without Answer

_Ludwig_:

At his brother's arrival in presenting his own fears, and some time before he noticed them, the albino had already bent his eyes on Ludwig. The expression melting on his face did not state the confident air it usually held, nor was there any arrogance or playfulness presented in the crimson orbs. In their wake however, was an almost sacrificial element of sincere caring, and in a sense, love. That stammering presented just made aware of how serious this situation was. Even in the broken days of the reunification, Gilbert had never broken down like this in front of his face.

Of course, he could easily state the same.

It was a strange element. Moments ago, he was deeply ashamed of his overall weakness and inability to grasp at his emotions. It seemed that now, now that the elder had relinquished his walls as well and offered a true and able comfort that was oh so needed at the time that he let himself go, he was allowing for someone else to hold his weight for once.

Even if, the person said to hold his weight was struggling more to keep his own limbs mobile.

Yes, something had indeed started today, something that would change all involved forever, even if Feliciano and Gilbert should find methods to survive. It seemed that such a catastrophe was the only way to make Germany see however, that he was as flawed as flawed could be by trying to hide the apparent 'weak' emotions.

He never thought his brother would teach him such an important lesson.

_"I won't leave you."_

The stuttering had proven that it could be a lie... not an intentional one, however, still a lie. A possibility remained that death would do us part and that thought of pessimism was the only one that remained until a reassuring brush of tenderness upon his cheek somehow gave him a spark of something unusual. Unidentified.

Hope.

How could one even be foolish enough to rely on it in these drastic times? Yet, he embraced the idea entirely, leaning into his brother's embrace unintentionally as he gripped that idea.

A ghost of his brother's personality applied with the words now spoken, hearing them presented gave the younger nation a reason to reassure, managing to bring up the corners of his mouth into a sort of smile before they dropped to the previous position.

It seemed only one could take so much.

It rang true in his head. That idea, for the next moment he found himself wrapping around his brother in a sense of desperation letting out a shrill following of 'whys' some of these completed with a phrase and others just leaving the single word hanging there in the air for all to hear.

"Why am I crying?"

"Why do you say such things when you could be wrong?"

"Why does Italy have to die?"

"Why?"

"Why!"

The questions grew in volume, reaching a peak where of Germany's voice almost cracked.

The final two were almost a whisper, the naive air he carried hidden for all these many years unleashed in a series of unanswered questions of which he wished he was calm enough to effectively and radically use reason to find the answers for himself.

"Why does it seem that I am about to lose everything and anything that I loved and cannot do a thing to stop it?"

"Why am I growing this gradual hatred for myself?"

* * *

_Gilbert:_

Gilbert had not expected West to fall into him again, and his eyes widened briefly in surprise before they softened. It was difficult, _much_ too difficult, for the younger man (and maybe for all of them), but how much more grief would the other have to take? 'A lot' was the obvious answer, no matter how much Prussia detested it. To have his little brother endure it all... And he couldn't do anything to change it, because Ludwig was a country now. Duties, memories, pain were all heaped into the position—a position that he had himself had passed down to the other.

Again, that flash of self-loathing. When he had first found the boy, he had never considered the future and the responsibilities to be handed down. Perhaps he never even meant to grow so close to that brilliant child, but here he was now, running a hand over the blonde's back—as he had done when both of them were younger—gritting his teeth to support West's sadness while combating his own.

West began to speak then—to ask questions that Gilbert could not possibly know the answer to. (Why am I crying? Why do you say such things when you could be wrong? Why does Italy have to die? Why? Why!) The questions—the utter desperation in his brother's voice tore at his heart. He had asked ones of the like before himself, face turned to the sky, silently mouthing the words to the God who he supposed must not have heard him, because the answers never came. Eventually, he had learned not to ask anymore.

Oh, but with West's unanswerable questions ringing in his ears, how could he help himself? He stood still, arms still lightly wrapped around the other's larger frame, those words piercing whatever noise—whatever silence—that reigned around them and fought back his own questions. Why Feliciano? Why now? Why at the time he believed that the danger was over? When he believed that he could continue living those carefree days of disrupting Roderich's piano-playing, of watching Elizaveta fawn over his bird, of eating pasta with Feliciano while Lovino looked on with that typical sour expression of his...

Of annoying West when he was bored; of being scolded to keep quiet; of getting drunk together and passing out on the same bed only to discover the other was more pissy than usual the next morning because he'd kicked the nation off; of falling asleep in front of his computer and waking up much later in the night with a blanket over his shoulders and a pillow under his head. Why now? Why them?

His hands clenched into fists. He wouldn't allow it. It wouldn't be now; it wouldn't be them. He was determined not to lose to whomever had made Feliciano write that will, spill those tears—brought upon so horrid a misery that it seemed to hang over their heads, thickening the air until it became painful to breathe, chest aching, slowly choking...

_"Why am I growing this gradual hatred for myself?" _Among the questions, this one broke through Gilbert's thoughts in a clean swipe, dissolving them all, leaving this one sentence to circle in his mind. His eyes narrowed. It hurt. It hurt like nothing before to hear his brother talk so about himself. If there was one thing Gilbert could have lived his life content not to hear...

He pulled back again, just enough to lock his gaze with those clear blue eyes. "No..." he breathed. "No, West. Listen. _Listen._" Words came out in broken streams, without meaning as they stood alone, but all trying to convey his feeling of urgency, of slight panic, his own pain at hearing those words uttered from the other's lips. He couldn't stand it, and even more the fact that he did not know how to comfort the nation. "No. Don't say that..."

Don't say that, West. You are a wonderful person, better than I could ever be—you'll succeed, West. You can't imagine what everyone (I) feel for you, what we'd give up for you, so please, don't. Don't... Don't ever hate yourself, West—it's one of the hardest burdens to bear. And if only—if only I could take your place again, take those responsibilities... But they're yours now, West, and you'll do better than I could ever have done.

"You should know better, West." The words were slowly taking shape—perhaps not the best, but they were the best Gilbert could say. It was ironic that now, he had taken the reprimanding tone, that their time seemed to have turned back two hundred years and he was, once again, comforting the budding country. "You're..." The words were difficult to choke out—they contradicted what he was used to, his very personality, but... "You're wonderful."


	11. Truth

_Lovino:_

The warmth from his dear brother's hand tightened around his own, but this feeling seemed to have spread throughout his body to the very core of his soul at Feliciano's words. With the warmth of the sun beating down on the two and the weight of his brother, Romano felt the corners of his lips curl upwards. It went as far to developing into a small, shy smile, revealing the Italians pearly white teeth; a truly rare sight. There it remained, even as Feliciano gazed upon him, with an expression up to par with Lovino's.

Back then, Romano would have scowled if his brother- or anyone for that matter- saw him with an expression so sincere and caring such as this. It was a sign of weakness, Lovino would think to himself. But now, not he nor anyone else could deny that Romano's feelings were mutual to his brother.

He whispered. "Feliciano..." The last four words he intended to end his sentence with was left unspoken.

Romano soon drew his eyes away, biting his lip in order to seize his grins. Not in embarrassment, but rather in the sense of reality. No, this wouldn't last forever. In five short months, his dear little brother would be taken away from him forever. He would be alone; not even Antonio would be there to comfort him, because the pain will be everlasting. He should be happy that he would be able to spend this precious time together with his precious brother... he should, but then why didn't his own feelings correspond with his theory?

Once again, Italy announced their course of action. _"Let's go home."_

Lovino squeezed his brother's hand and nodded. "Yeah..."

But what would they do there? Everything that they would do together from now would be much different from how they approached situations in the past. The gleeful experiences of cooking together would only be drawn out in awkwardness. The happiness that lifted their voices in harmony when they sang together would be gone. And when they laid upon their bed, only sadness would filled their minds, for they knew that tomorrow would be one day closer to the end.

* * *

_Feliciano:_

He was lodged in metaphorical prison, not as suspected of any offense, but as the most convenient and suitable mode of disposing of his well being as his confidence and sanity melted with each tear his brother shed, until only God conferred with them in respecting the ransom to take away the tears forever. That smile though, that smile in the dark of the dreariness of their relationship at current was like a beam of sunlight, drenching him in warmth.

He gripped his hand even tighter, wishing for time itself to freeze as he leaned on Lovino for physical and mental support on the way to the parking lot.

_Beginnings are scary. Endings are usually sad, but it's the middle that counts the most._

Yes, and thus, as Romano opened the car door for him, a plastered smile applied for him across his face, he leaned over to the elder with a slight heave allowing himself to touch the other's arm with a certain delicacy.

"I may be hurt physically, but, you are suffering more than I ever will. You have been ignored and rejected, and have tried to cover that up with an attitude. You always felt so left out in situations, like one could never care for you. Am I correct Lovino?"

The expression on his face showed enough shock and despair to answer his question without words, leaving the other stammering at trying to find an excuse to deny it.

"That is why you hated Germany correct? Because he earned so much attention from me."

His eyes grew weary as he gripped the cotton of Lovino's coat, turning his head to make contact with the hazel eyes.

"Fratello, listen to me, I never stopped loving you and I will continue to until the day I die. So, please..."

He took out the crumpled will from where he had stored it in his pocket along with a small hotel pen, scrambling something on the bottom in near-perfect cursive. He passed it to his brother's trembling hands with a new found confidence.

_I want Romano to not lie to me for the remainder of my life._

It wasn't something you wrote on a will, that request considering it dealt with the life itself, however, that and the tears were the two things he wanted to force out of Romano, so that he could live a better life without him.

Leaning forth, he pressed a chaste kiss to his brother's cheek, stumbling a little and slipping on the seat shortly after, becoming a huddled mess on the floor of the car. A wound had seemed to come open, as a little line of blood stained the outside realm of the fabric that made up his uniform jacket.

"I hope... that at least in my lifetime, that I was able to make you a little happier."

* * *

_Lovino:_

The two walked hand in hand through the parking lot. Now, Romano had not one thought in his head... just only the feeling of being overwhelmed by sorrow. Feliciano broke the killing silence, but only with words that would kill Romano even more.

_"I may be hurt physically, but, you are suffering more than I ever will."_

"Feliciano...?" What was he trying to get at? Surely he wasn't...

_"... Am I correct Lovino?"_

Lovino turned to his brother, his expression being one of surprise and... He quickly turned away. W-When did he come up with that conclusion? Romano instinctively sputtered random excuses in order to cover his shame, his voice on edge. "N-No... of course not! Damn, i-it's not like I'm an attention whore, Feliciano... why are you always-"

_"That is why you hated Germany correct? Because he earned so much attention from me."_

He stayed silent. Romano's eyes were hard, glaring at invisible air front of him. His head lowered slightly, hoping that his dark auburn hair would cover his pained eyes. Through gritted teeth, he whispered "...Shut the fuck up."

Within the elder Italian, a ball of hate welled up within him for Feliciano. Lovino had always yearned for someone to understand his true feelings, and now he received his wish... then why did he feel this way? His hands around the steering wheel tightened. He felt like punching his dying brother as hard as he could and leave it at that. Maybe even knock out a few teeth. He'd go home and dump his unconscious brother on the couch and then eat some of the tiramisu left in the refrigerator-

_"Fratello, listen to me, I never stopped loving you and I will continue to until the day I die. So, please..."_

Again, not a word left Romano's lips. He let out a steady, quiet breath in order to relieve himself of his horrible thoughts. A piece of paper was held towards him when he lifted his eyes. Hesitantly, he took it from his fratello.

_I want Romano to not lie to me for the remainder of my life._

Lovino read this newly added request over and over. His eyes lowered even more in depression and he bit his bottom lip. Not once had he looked at his brother, not even when Feliciano landed another kiss on the cheek and gave a final comment before hitting the floor. His wandering eye brought his sight upon his injured brother, a dark red patch steadily growing upon his uniform.

"O-Oi! Feliciano!"


	12. Potential

_Ludwig:_

His personal prison-door seemed to have been thrown open, and he came forth into the light, which, falling on all alike, seemed, to his sick and morbid heart, as if meant for no other purpose than to reveal the mark of his weakness for Gilbert to scoff at later. He merely hated himself for reasons he could still prevent. He hated himself for being powerless to save Italy and Prussia, and relied on said albino, former nation for such immense quantities of moral support where he himself was stronger than the latter.

How selfish.

_"You're wonderful."_

Hearing these words, he pushed away from the shoulder clothed originally navy blue, now almost black from his tears, with a sense to recover his remaining pride and hope. He shook his head, denying his brother's words.

"I cannot be wonderful if I stand here like a coward to something that still has the potential to change."

With that, and out of a remaining desperation, though not for support but instead for answers, he shook the platinum blonde lightly as if to get his attention, earning a half-lidded but yet full eye contact.

"It is my turn to return the favour. I needed..."

He struggled with the words, not able to find them considering how he had never said these things to anything but a mirror.

_Death makes us brave._

And that applied to both sides, seeing that Romano had even yet in the conference room broken a few of his mental walls and allowed his true emotions to show through.

He never had the knowledge of this 'bravery' until now. Until he had the ability to not only state the truth to others, but also to himself.

"I needed you back then. When I was still a budding nation. It is now my turn to return the favour. To you and Feliciano. I have strength and power now, and I couldn't call myself 'wonderful' unless I at least tried to sacrifice it to those who need it more."

He tried then to maintain a set balance, holding back tears.

Yes, he needed to be strong. For both he and Gilbert, the Italys eventually as well. If he could provide _anything_ helpful to save these lives he could.

Ludwig hugged his brother one last time before firmly gripping him by the left sleeve, dragging him out of the conference room with him, a new vigor filling his being. The confused look on Gilbert's face required an answer. He reflected that wish with a dry smile, looking back briefly.

"It's time to set things straight."

* * *

_Gilbert_:

A brief stillness as West processed his words, and had the situation been different, Gilbert probably would have turned away with something of a flush, embarrassed at letting such remarks slip through his lips. But the situation wasn't different, and the words felt right—even if West pushed away from him shortly after, leaving the albino to wonder if he had said something _wrong_ after all. His brother's next words, however, disconcerted him.

_"I cannot be wonderful if I stand here like a coward to something that still has the potential to change."_ The Prussian was unsure what to make of that statement, but—even if it was just a little bit—he could feel that West was starting to pull away from the despair that had engulfed him since Italy's revelation. But he had no time to respond, because Ludwig shook him lightly, and the albino blinked, still nonplussed, but raised his eyes to meet his brother's in a penetrating stare of red.

_"It is my turn to return the favour. I needed..."_ He could see that West was struggling with the words, to find the right ones as he himself had been doing moments ago. He swallowed thickly, biting back the sudden flood of emotion from the simple admission.

"West, you—" he began, but never finished. The nation had found the words he had been looking for, and now, the confessions were pouring out. (I needed you back then... It is now my turn to return the favour... I couldn't call myself 'wonderful' unless I at least tried to sacrifice it to those who need it more.) It stirred something inside him, and Prussia felt the urge to cry again, something irresistible, almost overwhelmingly so...

He dropped his head slightly, bit his lip and tried to keep his voice steady. "As if... I'd need it more than you, you bastard," he choked out as an attempt of a light-hearted retort, even though a part of him knew it to be true. He was no longer a nation, he no longer held any power, but West was still continuing to rise, and if he wasn't damned _proud_ of that boy. Their positions had been reversed, thanks to history, and West was the one with power now... It left him with a tinge of sadness.

_You're the best thing I've ever done, but where does that leave me?_

In some small corner in his mind, which he constantly ignored in favor of spouting egotisms and vanities, lies and denials, wasn't he terrified of being left behind? Terrified that the world would move on without him, forgetting him, and that would truly be his death, wouldn't it? Reunification... That had been okay. He would have gone bringing the Wall down, with the world's respect and West's tears, but what if he was to lead a fading existence, weakening each day until nothing was left? What if even West (_mein geliebter Bruder_), would one day look at him without any recognition—?

Suddenly, Gilbert found himself wrapped in his brother's arms again in a brief hug. It lasted not ten seconds, but for him, for that moment, it was enough. He was being stupid. West was with him now, wasn't he? It was West who was tugging on his sleeve; it was West who was dragging him out of the conference room, out the door, into the sun; West who was glancing back at his (what must have been) confused expression; West who flashed him a small, dry smile (and his smiles, no matter how casual, always seemed to make the albino's heart skip a beat, because even now, West was beautiful), and he knew that, for now, being forgotten was impossible.

_"It's time to set things straight."_

Simple words, but Gilbert found the tears spilling over now, just a little. He raised an arm to brush them roughly away, but he was sniggering, and that soon became a full-blown laugh. "T—took you long enough!" he yelled at his stupid, idiotic, wonderful little brother as he allowed himself to be tugged into the sunlight, still laughing and gasping slightly for breath as his eyes slowly dried. "I thought you were going to give up on me!"

And this was alright, wasn't it? More than alright. Listening to West's confessions, feeling the warmth from the sun on his skin and the breeze in his hair, hearing his own laughter ringing in his ears, the weight from before was lifted slightly, as if they had left part of it behind just as they left behind the conference building. Even though the dread lingered (it would never be gone until Feliciano, and to an extent, he himself, was safe), for now, it was alright.


	13. Strength

_Feliciano:_

We have as yet hardly spoken of the infant that little creature that is to bloom in Romano's conscience, whose innocent life had sprung, by the inscrutable decree of death, a now lovely and immortal flower, out of the rank luxuriance of a certain selfishness inhabiting this situation. Feliciano knew of such and was lusting to bring forth the good of Romano's inner soul that even he denied. After all, it had seemed that death brought out the most in people. Something must always be lost to be gained.

And that is why, on the floor of the car, littered with his brother's cigarette butts, he slapped away his helping hand at his concern, now forming to sit in the car seat.

"Let it bleed, fratello, let it bleed."

Yes. He must let it go for any progress to be made. He must let it go so that he may become stronger as the other grew weaker.

He however, took the now rejected hand in his, rubbing it softly in circles as to comfort.

"Stay strong."

His conscience was wavering as a certain spell overcame him with this bizarre sickness. His grip was retreating, dots layering his vision.

"Stay strong, for the both of us, stay strong, stay strong."

He muttered the words as if in a trance before letting the darkness overtake him, the last image filling him with a heavily sinking feeling. Eyes of warm amber washed over with readily able tears as he lost the feeling of hands on his arms steadily. The pained expression faded with black as his thoughts stopped and he slipped into the hands of potential fate.

This was just a stage, he wasn't going to die. Not yet.

And then blackness overtook him like a spell.

* * *

_Lovino__:_

"Feliciano!" Romano immediately leaned over to aid his brother, but was rejected.

_"Let it bleed, fratello, let it bleed."_

Lovino was surprised—almost furious at Feliciano's words. How could he just sit there while his brother was dying... Did Feliciano think he was heartless? Anger swelled up within Romano, ready to snap at his stupid little brother.

But his explosive temper subsided as Feliciano took his hand in his.

_"Stay strong,_" were his words.

Again, Romano bit his lip and lowered his gaze. _Sh—shit... how the hell can I stay strong when you're dying? Fratello... my precious little brother..._ These were the words that were held back by a choking noising and gasps. Lovino squeezed his eyes and clenched his teeth, trying hard to block the flow of tears.

By the time he mustered enough courage to face his brother, he was gone.

The setting sun engulfed the room in a warm embrace. He stood there against the window, his hands behind him and pressing against the windowsill. It was fully open... the orange-golden rays were the only things that kept Romano warm. His eyes drifted amongst the tiny dust particles that were visible in this kind of light. Lovino followed the trail to his brother, lying in the covers of the bed that they shared.

After Feliciano had drifted into unconsciousness, Romano panicked. He placed his brother neatly in the back seat and drove to their house, ignoring the speed limits. Once they were back home, he saw his brother's scars. Romano remembered the sight clearly, as it was only a few hours prior.

It was disgusting.

The scars were all over, wrinkling and destroying Feliciano's skin. They were most common along his brother's thin arms, where the wound had presented itself once again, reminding the two of the host's horrible fate.

Lovino recalled that moment when he laid Feliciano within familiar sheets. He grasped his brother's cold hand with both of his and whispered, "Feliciano... wake up, please... You can't leave... there are people who love you, who need you... D—damn it, Feliciano!... Fratello... f-fratello..." His words came along with gasps and sniffs. By this time Romano was unable to reproduce his previous actions, his tears streaming out of his dulled brown eyes.

Romano glared at his and his brother's carpeted floor. Lovino's fingernails dug into the wood his hands were occupying, scratching off the white paint. Releasing the windowsill of his iron grip, he took a final look at his sleeping brother.

He felt so useless. There was nothing he could do for his precious little brother. Nothing at all. Everything that he would do would be in vain. At the thought, he brought his fist up and punched the olive green wall.

His entire fist was almost entirely within the newly created dent. Romano's breathing was heavy and ragged, his eyes glazed over.

"Damn it... d—damn..." A single drop of water fell from his eyes and disappeared into the carpet. "Fuck! W—why does this have to h—happen?" The distraught Italian pulled his fist out of the wall, pieces of wood chips littering the floor. He stormed out of the room.

Lovino decided to sleep on the couch tonight.


	14. What Has Changed and What Has Not

**A/N:** Sorry for the slow updates, haha. You guys are catching up to us now, so I'm trying to spread out the waiting time between the chapters a little more. Please bear with me. m(_ _)m Anyhow, it's almost Christmas! The three of us wish you all a merry Christmas to those who celebrate it, and happy holidays to those who don't. I hope your wishes for this year comes true! All we ask for is a couple of reviews, so how about it? ;) /brick'd And thanks to those who have been consistently reviewing. We really do appreciate it!

* * *

_Ludwig__:_

The period was hardly, if at all, earlier than that of our story, when a dispute concerning the right of property in a pig not only caused a fierce and bitter contest in all nations involved, but resulted in an important modification of eliminating the apparent 'problems.'

As Ludwig sat at his maple-wood desk pondering such values, trash can littered with discarded ideas about how to stop the situation, he came across that conclusion.

A right of property.

But none were scheming against each other. Even Romano could not be behind this due to the fact that his brother was the centre of the entire issue.

No, no one could even see this coming, and that is what scared him the most. His hand precariously dangled over the wired phone, fingers just inches away from the buttons to dial the Vargas' number, but, somewhere, a morbid sense flooded him to not call yet.

He could not fathom how this could have happened, unless it was a conflicting issue with any of their associated bosses. Greed can destroy quite a bit, and from personal experiences with bosses, the blonde could say that quite truthfully.

"Bruder, have you known of any... questionable information among any nations bosses?"

Why exactly was he asking him? Why would he know? It wouldn't matter for desperate times called for apparent desperate measures.

After all, just this day, he had barely managed to drag himself out of the conference room with an once of his dignity, crying moments before. He had managed a good composure after the instance, dragging Gilbert behind him who was also recovering from the trauma beforehand.

Several hours after the unusually silent ride home, all the younger had been doing was researching the activities that had gone on throughout last year, trying to piece together how this happened and how to stop it.

Thus far, no progress has been made.

Leaning back in the rolling, office chair, hair slightly messy and falling out of its usual stance, he glanced back to see if his brother was even partially paying attention, trying his best to not let his emotions catch up to him.

"This applies to you too, you know."

Yes, and this was just the declaration of war, the battle would be long and hard.

He just hoped it would not be in vain.

* * *

_Gilbert_:

He may not look it nor act it, but Gilbert was a tactician—an analyzer—through and through. He had conceived many stratagems in his times of war, and he was, unquestionably, one of the best. That hadn't changed, even now. He'd withdrawn into himself during the ride home, staring absently at the road ahead of him, head brimming with ideas. He was the best, and this situation had put his talent to use. The question that had been eating away at him as he watched the buildings and trees pass in blurs of gray and green, barely registering what he was seeing, however, was 'who.'

In the current situation, his brother and himself were working blindly, with no defined enemy to meet. Such a situation was the worst of a tactician's nightmares—an unprecedented attack, an ambush, chaos with no plan to lead them. They were at a disadvantage, operating almost in the dark, with no information to lead them other than the fact that Feliciano was to be dissolved. Gilbert didn't like operating in the dark.

He had sat with his brows furrowed for quite a while, chin propped on his hand, staring absently out the window as West scribbled away on pieces of paper, rejected them, and crumpled them to toss them to the ground. He may not have looked it, but he was coming up with a few theories of his own. Absorbed in his own thoughts as he was, he didn't hear West's question. 'Who are these people?' 'Who has control over Italy?' 'What if they were another nation'—'

"This applies to you too, you know." That caught his attention. Gilbert blinked, looking away from the scenery outside and directing his gaze at the other instead. Ah... What was it that West had asked? Something—something about... _'Bruder, have you known of any... questionable information among any nations bosses?' _Yes, that. Right.

The albino slowly shook his head. He had not been to many of the world conferences (with the exception of those when he managed to convince his brother to let him go and/or sneaked in), and he kept mostly to Francis and Antonio during those times anyway. Neither of them had said anything suspicious regarding their or anyone else's bosses, and neither had Roderich or Elizaveta (though he thought they would tell West first anyhow).

That led to another interesting point. None of the other nations had seemed to know about this—this dissolution other than those present during Feliciano's breakdown, which only would've included Lovino, West and himself. Gilbert pondered this for a moment, ideas slowly taking shape. "Why do you think..." he asked aloud, half to himself and half to his brother across the room. "That only Feliciano knew about this?"

* * *

_Feliciano__:_

Unknown to all but Feliciano Vargas, and possessing the lock and key of his silence, he chose to withdraw his name from the roll of mankind, and, as regarded his former ties and interests, to vanish out of life as completely as if he indeed lay at the bottom of the ocean, whither rumour had long ago consigned him. It was a hard mission, the fact that he felt himself slowly fading away even in his haunting dreams, yet he hung to the idea like a baby to its mother as to save everyone dearest to him.

But his sub-conscience when sleeping still held bitter memories he would long time want to forget.

_It was a brisk meadow on a dewy morning, white robes graced two young figures reaching out to the world as innocent newborns. With the help of a blurred figure, they managed their way to see the world. The two figures gripped each other's hands firmly, promises made through the touch._

_"I promise I will never leave you fratello."_

_As if on cue, the scene blackened as the other disappeared, a turbulent storm brewing on the horizon as the first figure aged quickly, noticing a looming figure clothed in black that was unrecognized. Fear drenched the figures features, flashes of pure darkness following every other moment. Bracing his death, he pushed towards the black creature seeing the second original figure watching with graced tears, forever young. Closing his eyes, he waited for impact knowing his life had been well lived and he had finally done something of use._

_"It is all worth it... to see your smiling face in this life or the next."_

A circular fan was the next thing that graced those amber pools with life. Staring up at its rotating figure was a confusing thing. He released the blankets he held so tightly in his sleep, hissing at the pain that came with a few opened scars that left little trinkets of blood on the silk.

_It was a dream._

But then if it was, how long had he been asleep? There were several bouquets of flowers gracing the nightstand along with several cards.

_How long had he been asleep?_

Trying to step out of the bed, he was stopped suddenly, falling back unto it by an immense pain ripping through his legs. Glancing up from position through hazed eyes was Lovino, eyes raised in a combination of fear and concern. He himself was a mess. His hair was awry and stuck out in all directions, an old, over-sized T-shirt hanging loosely on his limbs. Blinking a few times to become normal again with the light reflecting from the lamp since the blinds had been closed, he pulled himself together as best he could as to not make his brother fret. Leaning against a chair, his voice cracking slightly, he mumbled a tired, "Good morning fratello." before slipping from his spot to reconnect with the floor.

Looking up with a certain own fear reflecting in his eyes, he re-positioned himself to the best of his ability, legs hanging lame on the ground.

"I'm in some rough shape aren't I? Can we have a picnic in the backyard today?"

And with that, he acted as if nothing had changed. Acted as if the entire situation never happened even as he lay on a ground too weak to stand. For he didn't want to be treated like a dying person.

He wanted his brother to consider him not one, but instead just consider him a brother. A brother of whom was a little aloof at times. A brother who was physically challenged. A brother who could eat his way out of anything.

A brother who loves his elder more than anything in the world.

Smiling weakly, he tried his best to give a comforting look to Lovino gently.

"Please..." his voice was pitiful, "tell me that nothing has changed."

* * *

_Lovino:_

How many days have Feliciano suffered? It was only a few days since he revealed his dire situation to Lovino, but it has been so much longer than that...

These thoughts would constantly chime on and off within Romano's sub-conscience, rewinding itself as if it were a broken record.

_Click._ Replay.

_Click._ Replay.

He would always attempt to piece together this mystery, and he would always break down in misery at each failure. It was times like these that Romano wished that he had studied more when he was a kid during the Renaissance. Why did he have to be so helpless?

Lovino's attention snapped towards his stirring brother. Their eyes met for a brief second before Feliciano released his body from the sheets of his bed. Much to Romano's dismay, his little brother supported himself upon his legs.

_"Good morning fratello."_

Romano stood up in protest of Feliciano's actions. "Fe—Feliciano! What are—?"

His brother laid at his feet. A haze of panic misted Lovino's thoughts as he stooped down to aid the fallen Feliciano. Romano kept his hands on his brother's arms as Feliciano worked to reposition himself upon the carpeted flooring.

"Feliciano! Don't try to walk... you know that you're weak right now!" Lovino held his tongue to prevent any curses slipping through while chastising his brother.

_"I'm in some rough shape aren't I? Can we have a picnic in the backyard today?"_

The fading light in Feliciano's eyes made it almost impossible to refuse his demands. However, Romano's golden brown eyes came to a close as he shook his head in disapproval. "We can't. It's 18:00, you idiot." The ends of his voice were hushed and vibrated with concern. "Here, c'mon" He whispered as the elder helped the weaker up to his feet.

A picnic would have been nice. Feliciano has been resting in bed for the most part with no signs of recovery. Romano cherished each brief moment he had with his brother and did all he could to provide for him.

"Are you hungry? What do you want to eat? I'll make it for you."

Feliciano lifted his head. His eyes were shaky as they tried to focus them into Romano's. The corners of his brother's dry lips trembled as he pieced together a loving smile.

_"Please..."_

His voice was heart-breaking.

_"...tell me that nothing has changed."_

How much more could Romano take? More importantly... how much more could Feliciano bare? Lovino's eyes broke the lock with his brother's. His mouth hung half-open, unresponsive. Romano's hand softly gripped the loose cloth draped over Feliciano.

No answer. He agreed to follow his brother's will, after all.


	15. Tomorrow

_Ludwig:_

Sometimes a light glimmered out of the German's eyes, burning blue and ominous, like the reflection of a furnace, or, let us say, like one of those gleams of ghastly fire that darted from Ivan's awful doorway in the snow, and quivered on his face.

_"Why do you think..."_

A phone call and a box of chocolates solved nothing.

_"... That only Feliciano knew about this?'_

Days on the calendar marked each failure with a giant red 'X.'

Days had passed and Feliciano's condition only worsened with little to no possible hope of how to stop it. He himself had visited the once quirky Italian every other day, thinking the other days should be spent with the remaining family he had.

It was heartbreaking.

A failed attempt to walk across the room, little trails of blood, a broken voice...

A soul dying.

Feliciano was dying. There was no way to deny it. Each hitch of the young Italian's breath lead to yet another tear on his or Romano's face, a beautiful stream cried over the length of these few days.

Lovino even showed signs of death. Not of his body, but of his soul. His heart. Each day broke a little more inside of the Italian...

And him as well.

As Feliciano's health deteriorated into nothingness, he felt himself lacking that same soul and morals he had had before, gripping a limp and pallid hand his face pressed into it as he sobbed on what he would have once pushed off as another hug was given. Oh, how he wished for those long ago embraces of the flighty individual known as Feliciano.

This wasn't Feliciano anymore, but it seemed to be just a figure. A figure who had taken the form and name but yet wasn't Feliciano.

_Oh vast is the ocean of a human emotion but ever so violent can ye be!_

Even at home, the process of this peculiar illness haunted him and ate him away as if he had got it. Even the slightest cough of his brother caused him to panic, sending him into a frenzy that would end in an out of character motion of a worried 'I love you' and an overzealous hug, of which Gilbert would usually respond in such a way that would cause the younger to avoid him until the next occurrence happened. As these 'coughs' became more and more frequent however, added with other symptoms, Ludwig got more and more skeptical and concerned of it, forcing him to stay in bed.

_This happened in only a mere three days._

And now, he peered over his brother's sleeping figure with a certain somber attitude. And again, as with Feliciano, took the pale hand in his, although limp for a different reason, and cried softly on it until those pallid eyelids lifted and looked at him with a smug yet dazed glance. Through tears, he merely retorted to anything his brother would say with that same, simple 'I love you, Bruder.' before taking Gilbert into a tight embrace and releasing the remainder of his tears.

_I will still love you even when you are gone from this earth._

_

* * *

_

_Gilbert_:

_Why do you think that only Feliciano knew about this?_

He received no reply to the question, not that he had expected one. That was okay; an answer would come—that was what he told himself, what he hoped, because how were they supposed to help, supposed to _save_ Feliciano when they had no idea what they were up against? Gilbert asked himself these questions, turning them over again and again, coming up with theories, rejecting them, exhausting his mind, and becoming increasingly distracted—something that concerned West greatly. He knew exactly what his brother was thinking (if it was Feliciano now, who said that Gilbert couldn't be next?), and yet he couldn't stop. Feliciano... Feliciano _had_ to be saved, there _had_ to be some way of righting this horrible, horrible mistake and every day that Gilbert didn't come up with a solution was a day closer to Feliciano's disappearance. And once that happened, there was no way to undo it. Time was against them.

As if to add insult to the injury, every day spent by Feliciano in his deteriorating state, West became increasingly paranoid. A single cough or a sneeze was sufficient to send the nation into a frenzy, fussing over Gilbert, hugs and confessions of 'I love you'—treating him like some delicate object in danger of breaking. Eventually, West seemed not to be able to take it anymore, and demanded that the albino stay at home and remain in bed as much as possible.

That put a stop to his visits to the Italians' home, to his prodding at Feliciano in hopes of receiving an _answer_, to asking Lovino the same thing only to be met with a small shake of the head—Feliciano also refused to tell him what was going on. Gilbert had protested West's idea forcefully, anger pulsing through him in waves (he could handle himself perfectly fine, who did he look like? Roderich? did West think that Feliciano was only important to _him_? he wasn't dying... Dammit, he wasn't, couldn't be, but West had given him that _look_, that look that seemed to be on his face all the time now, the one that Gilbert couldn't stand because it made his brother look so _lost, helpless, weak_ and it hurt Gilbert so much to see his brother looking like that, and what he would do only to wipe it off the other's face—

He gave in.

He obeyed most of his brother's requests, if only to offer him some form of comfort—West would know that for now, one of those he loved was safe, or at least as safe as he could be. The obedience, however, was only exhibited when the person he was putting on the show for was present—when the nation was absent, Gilbert would get out of bed, place a call to the twins' place, hoping for some bit of news though the telephone now went more unanswered than the opposite. From time to time, he'd sneak out of the house, sometimes to buy beer or junk food, other times simply to reassure himself that he was _alive_, that his limbs still worked, that the sun didn't burn him, that he could still run and shout and not be afraid of falling apart, and yes, _yes_, he was okay, fine, brilliant, he wasn't dying now, and that was enough.

If West suspected anything of Gilbert's escapades, the younger never said anything.

* * *

Gilbert didn't remember what the dream was about. As soon as he began to stir into consciousness, the memory of it began to slip and fade, and by the time he had turned onto his side to be met by the image of his little brother crying into his hand, any recollection had disappeared into dust, leaving him with only a vague sense of having missed something important. Not that it mattered just how the impression had been lost—Gilbert would have forgotten the dream when he faced his brother anyhow, regardless of whether or not it had faded during his attempt to grasp the vestiges of wakefulness.

The albino groaned, rubbing his eyes before lazily opening one to focus a bleary gaze onto his brother. "Wha' izzit?" he slurred, tongue still not quite agile as he tried to shake the remnants of sleep threatening to pull him back into blessed oblivion. He managed to read the red numbers on the digital clock standing atop the night-table after a few blinks. "West..." he muttered, "'s only three..."

For awhile, he received no answer from the other, who continued weeping into Gilbert's palm. Each harsh sob sent the albino himself a little more into the depths of despair (West, West. Stop it, please. Don't cry like that. You have no idea, _no idea_ how fucking hard it is to see you so damned broken. I'm your brother for fuck's sake, I'm not supposed to let you cry like this... You're not supposed to be crying for me). He managed to maneuver himself into a sitting position (even now it was so obvious that West was taller), and reached out with his free hand to drag it through his brother's hair. Dimly, he realized that the blonde strands had not been combed back, and they had not been for awhile. "West..."

The nation suddenly reached out and Gilbert found himself crushed against the other's chest with the words 'I love you, Bruder' ringing in his ears. The albino closed his eyes. He wasn't an affectionate person—the number of times he had kissed Ludwig when he was young could be counted with his fingers, and yet, the frequency of which he'd now been offering such actions had drastically increased. He supposed that he didn't care much anymore. Who would he impress? What did he care to impress when a close friend was dying? When his brother was being slowly consumed by despair? When he needed to hold up—for both of their sakes—when he wanted nothing more to be told that it would be okay, Feliciano would be okay, _he_ would be okay?

Things were different now and the war he fought wasn't one that he completely understood. He knew, however, that right now, his brother was seeking comfort in him, as he had been doing since Feliciano's (admission, turn for the worse, whatever word you used, it just didn't _fit_)—_he_ was the only one who could offer it. The irony was laughable, really. But he was more than disposed to offer what he could.

Gilbert leaned upward, and gently placed a kiss on his brother's forehead. "Me too." The words, no matter how softly spoken, sounded strained. These confessions were foreign to him. Such tender, passionate words—he had said them not many times, and neither were they often said to him. But he meant them. When he murmured "ich liebe dich" in his brother's ears, when he moved lower, softly pressing his lips against the other's, he meant them. He meant these actions, true- and whole-heartedly, because West was his precious little brother.

He pulled slowly away, red eyes locked with those clear, blue ones, and gave the blonde a small grin. "Let's go to sleep," he suggested lightly. They were both tired—had been for awhile. "Tomorrow..." Gilbert trailed off, bit his lip, but he was resolute. "Let's go see Feli tomorrow. Both of us," he added. _I'm not going to die, West,_ and he hoped that the other understood, because right now, for the moment, that was the truth. His people still remembered 'East' and that kept him alive.

For how long though, he didn't know.

Frowning, but pushing such morose thoughts aside, Gilbert shifted, moving towards the opposite side of the bed and leaving a space open—an unspoken offer to Ludwig as he slid down the mattress to settle with his back to the other.

Tomorrow. He knew that, for now, it would come for him. That was enough.


End file.
